The Holy Bullet (40 page)

“Rafael,” she whispered.

“Sarah,” he answered seriously. He showed no physical weakness. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I mean, considering the possibilities.” She was happy to see him again . . . see them . . . “Are you . . . all right?”

“Yes, thanks,” Rafael answered calmly.

“James is pale,” Sarah realized. “Are you all right?”

“Uh, don’t worry. It’s nerves,” the Englishman said.

“What are we doing here?” Sarah wanted to know. “Is it Bar—”

Rafael put his finger on his lips, the obvious sign to shut up.

“We are in the custody of the Russian secret service. Old guard people without technological equipment or satellite images. They’re very patient and have their own training. This is one of their old methods.”

“What method?” Phelps asked doubtfully.

“They leave us loose here without pressure, prepared to complain about our life, one to the other, to talk about what has brought us here and how everything has gone wrong for us, et cetera, et cetera.”

In fact all this sudden freedom has Seemed Strange to Sarah. It smacked of amateurism. It might have worked if Rafael were not here.

“Would you like something to drink?” Rafael asked Sarah.

“What?” She hadn’t expected this question. “Ah, if I had the pleasure of a cup of tea . . .”

“Three teas for us down here, please,” he shouted at the door, startling Sarah and Phelps.

“It’s not every day we receive a visit from foreigners who know our methods,” a voice answered from the door. “The foreigners who know them are not usually in the world of the living.”

Sarah recognized him as the man in his sixties who had led her to this basement.

“You?” Phelps offered this scandalized doubt.

“Me indeed,” the man answered. He turned to Rafael. “Who are you?”

They stared at each other without blinking. They measured forces, studied each other. Every gesture counted, thus the appearance of calm. Rafael seated with his elbow on the table supporting his chin as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The unknown man leaning in the doorway, a cigarette in his mouth.

“You know who I am.”

A smile filled the Russian’s mouth. Straight white teeth.

“Does the pope know you are here?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Maybe I will.”

He took a drag on the cigarette and adopted a meditative expression, an empty look, supported by the silence of the moment.

“I have many questions for you, Father Rafael Santini.” A slight mocking look shone in the Russian’s eyes. It was time to show the cards.

“I haven’t come to answer but to ask questions . . . barber Ivanovsky.”

I
nside every border there is an elite with limitless access to all corners of the territory. They are in control over the population whether the regime is democratic or dictatorial. The few that control the many, a minority who clap their hands and see one pair of hands turn into an immense national applause. Beyond the greedy ones of national influence, there are others who go beyond the borders of their own country and manage to make the greater part of other populations dance to the sound of their music. These are the elite of the elite, and of course they exist, since everything can be subdivided infinitely.

Marius Ferris could be considered one of these privileged few, someone who crosses borders without being inconvenienced, who enters countries through a special door without the necessity of explanations.

Work or pleasure?
is what some border guards ask recent arrivals. A phrase Marius Ferris never hears. One word, one word alone, is what they tell him:
Welcome
. They don’t even take his diplomatic passport with the Vatican seal. It’s enough when they see it at a distance in the hand of a man of the highest importance.

He had arrived on a commercial night flight, business class, of course. He has enjoyed the privilege of a Famous Grouse whiskey, earphones to listen to music or add sound to the images on his individual monitor, an orthopedic pillow to sleep a little. After all, it was two hours and forty minutes in the air, and sleep has to be regularized. Twenty minutes’ delay from the scheduled arrival to the actual time the plane touched down on the asphalt of Leonardo da Vinci Airport at Fiumicino.

He headed immediately for the place of his personal pilgrimage. His bedroom in the Casa di Santa Marta could wait.

He found a young driver waiting for him with a paper showing the letters M.F.O.D.

Marius Ferris, Opus Dei
. The prelate smiled.

“That’s me. Good evening.”

“Good . . . good evening . . . Your Eminence.”

He could have corrected him and told him that he was not yet “Your Eminence,” but he liked the deference to religious authority. In the final account he and his colleagues were the border that separates the believers from God. And nobody got to God without passing through people like him. It was worth all the money extracted from the faithful, more or less wealthy, who deposit fortunes in their hands . . . in the name of God.

The driver offered to take the small silver-gray briefcase he carried.

“Don’t bother. I’ll carry it,” he refused arrogantly. “Show me to the car, please.”

The car was right at the door of the arrivals terminal, a rare case today, explicable because the passenger was who he was.

Once settled into the immense backseat of the Mercedes, top line, with his briefcase in his lap, Marius Ferris sighed. A sigh of relief, of peace with himself. Things were coming together again.

“To Saint Peter’s, Your Eminence?” the driver asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

“No. No. Santa Maria Maggiore.”

He had to go now. He couldn’t wait any longer.

The young man drove off wiping away the drops of sweat from his face. It seemed strange the bishop wanted to go to Santa Maria della Neve. The basilica was closed at that hour, like all the sacred places in Rome. Even the saints have a right to the same nocturnal rest as the living. Thank God.

There was little traffic on the expressway at that hour of the morning. The airport itself had been empty when he arrived, only the late arrivals, the distracted, the disoriented, who didn’t understand Italian or English, those who’d lost their belongings or those who’d come from late-night flights like that of Marius Ferris.

The straight fast lane with guardrails less than a yard from the outer edge on the shoulder didn’t intimidate the drivers who used it. Least of all this nervous young man, who, at the wheel, at sixty-five or seventy miles an hour, forgot his anxieties with nothing on his conscience. The left lane was for speed, and he didn’t change lanes until he entered the Fiumicino-Rome freeway, except on one occasion to let a faster BMW pass.

At least he’s efficient
, Marius Ferris thought. Driving over the speed limit didn’t bother him. The faster the better.

Without delay they entered the great imperial city. Marius Ferris looked at his watch. Two-twenty. It wasn’t a decent hour to enter this basilica or any basilica or church in Rome or anywhere else.

They turned onto the Lungotevere di San Paolo, ignoring the first of four basilicas in Rome, San Paolo Fuori le Mura. It was not the one that mattered, we well know, or the greatest. Destiny marked Santa Maria Maggiore as the most important tonight.

“The basilica is closed at this hour,” the driver dared to say in an attempt to start a conversation. He was visibly much calmer.

“For you,” Marius Ferris only replied, stressing his superior importance.

The young driver had thought this would be a quick trip, picking up a priest at the airport and taking him to Saint Peter’s. He’d have time to stop by Ramona’s house on the Via dell’Orso and give her a good-night kiss, maybe something more. But this detour wouldn’t allow him time for that. He should cross himself and ask forgiveness for thinking sinful thoughts of lust, but he was ashamed because of the presence of the prelate in the backseat. He was afraid he’d read his thoughts. Little did the young driver know that Marius Ferris had more things to think about than his driver’s sexual fantasies, although what the old man felt, now that they’d left the Via dei Fori Imperiali and drove up Cavour, could be compared to the pleasure of carnal relations, applied to the spiritual. Marius Ferris, apparently calm, felt anxious with butterflies in his stomach, just like the blessed that look forward to an amorous encounter, a kiss on the lips, a smile.

Once on Via Cavour they turned right toward the Via di Santa Maria Maggiore. It was a steep climb that leads to the Via Liberiana. The driver eased up with the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore on the left.

Marius Ferris opened the door with the vehicle still in motion, forcing the young man to brake hard.

“Wait for me here,” he ordered, closing the door immediately and walking in the direction of the side door for authorized persons only to the right side of the basilica.

The driver closed his eyes in frustration.
Hell
. He hated the idiotic phrase
Wait for me here
. He hated it. Oh, Ramona, beautiful Ramona, you will have to wait another night for him to throw pebbles against your window.

But it’s Marius Ferris who interests us. He approached the side door for deliveries and employees. He rang the bell for fifteen minutes before someone appeared. For the last five minutes he never stopped pressing the button. The person who finally opened the door was a Redemptorist brother, roused out of bed by the violent, constant buzzing.

“There are hours for visiting the basilica and the brothers,” he scolded. “This isn’t one of them.” His eyes were red with sleep and anger.

“Get out of the way,” Marius Ferris said, shoving him aside roughly.

The man didn’t resist and let him enter. Brothers aren’t used to violence, no matter what order.

“Where do you think you’re going? Who are you?” he managed to ask.

“I’m the guy who pays you,” Marius Ferris answered immediately, turning his back and walking toward the interior of the church.

The man recovered and ran after him.

“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are, but you can’t come in like this. Identify yourself or I will have to call the Carabinieri.”

If, on the one hand, Marius Ferris loved being flattered, put on an altar, and adored, the contrary infuriated him. He stopped and looked at the Redemptorist.

“Tell Brother Vincenzo I’m going to be in the crypt for five minutes. He already knows.”

“You know the prior?”

“I know everyone. If you want to continue in your position, I suggest you go to bed.”

“Very well, sir. Do you know the way?”

Marius shook his head. Just what he needed. A friar acting important with him. He waited until the other returned to his room and entered the immense nave with a gold ceiling, silent, dark, holy.

He retraced the way that someone else had taken twenty-six years earlier, with the opposite purpose. He went down the center aisle, unhurriedly, a slight fear rising within as the baldachin could be seen closer and closer. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t sweating. The light was dim but showed the moisture covering the rest of his face. It was dampening his suit, drops falling on the holy floor. Even great men react to great moments.

The crypt was under the altar. Two small gates on either side served as an entrance and exit. They opened onto two narrow steps that descended to the crypt where the wooden boards of the manger were found, the alleged material that formed part of the infant Jesus’ crib.

When he found himself before the relic, he knelt down and bowed his head submissively. He joined his hands and whispered a litany, bursting from a heart full of doubts. He wouldn’t turn his back on the challenge that awaited him. Meanwhile nothing could separate him from his encounter alone with God, from Whom he asked discernment and strength to carry out his purpose.

He roused his courage and got up from the prie-dieu. He took off the gold chain around his neck and opened the glass cover that protected the relic containing the holy boards from the altar consecrated to the Virgin. He searched in the place he’d been told to look, and . . . nothing.

No envelope, object, nothing. He tried again over and over until there was no doubt. Beyond the boards, guarded inside the gold reliquary supplied with a plastic screen to permit viewing by the countless faithful who visited the crypt daily, there was nothing more. What he was looking for had been removed already.

His sweat and nerves overwhelmed him. He’d looked forward to this moment so much, had wanted to feel a whirlwind of contradictory emotions . . . and now . . . nothing. Only the boards remained inside their protective reliquary, but, with all due respect, they weren’t as important as the secret that should have been hidden there.

His doubts overcame him. Had it ever been here? He looked at the chain and the gold key hanging from it. It was the only one, he was sure of that. He remembered how the other obtained the original when it had been decided this would be the hiding place under the protection of the Holy Child. He’d had to make a Franciscan drink until he passed out. The key disappeared that night, and this was the same key in his hand now. He remained on his knees in front of the sacred memorial. His legs weakened and gave out under the weight of his disillusion.

Think. Think
, he thought.

He could reach only a not very optimistic conclusion.

Treason
.

He closed the glass that protected the reliquary from the implacable atmosphere and climbed the stairs two steps at a time. He jumped the small gate and ran down the nave toward the exit.

Simultaneously he dialed a number on his cell phone. Two rings later, someone answered.

“We’ve been betrayed. Kill them all.”